And The Moon's Turned Black
by The Malt Shopper
Summary: Takes place during "Gilligan Goes Gung Ho". Sometimes what we want isn't as unobtainable as it seems; we just won't accept it.
1. The Town Mouse and the Country Mouse

An epistaxis is a terribly inconvenient thing to have, confining one to a horizontal position until the bleeding has ceased. Being debilitated in such a manner makes me horribly restless and, frankly, brings on a feeling of uselessness I simply cannot shake.

And for such a small thing to induce ladies to get started cooing over you, worried about your well-being—I know they mean well, but such things can be (and are, for that matter) quite unnerving.

From here I have a good vantage point of both of them—in fact, you might say they're closing in on me, the handkerchief in Ginger's hand clamping down over my nose. Rather disturbing—I never have liked being touched, and now I have a pretty good idea about how much our fair movie star really learned on the set of _Ben Casey _about nursing.

But she means well. She always does, doesn't she?

I take the handkerchief in my own hand and more gently dab at the blood. The skin is tender and raw.

Glancing up at my companions, my mind draws a Venn diagram. Ginger: racy, worldly, tall, titian. Same: kind, beautiful women with hearts of gold. Mary Ann: modest, an ingénue, petite, brunette.

Polar opposites, you might say. But that middle column tells you everything you need to know.

How would you ever decide between them?

I guess it all depends—what do you want in a woman? Sophisticated or naïve? Mysterious or straightforward? City or country? We've got all the extremes here.

And I'm not sure I could ever pick one over the other.

I'm sure someday _someone_ will be able to choose. But he'll be a stronger man than I.

And if even he can't, he'll have to go fight Mr. Howell for his wife.

Poor devil.


	2. But You're Hers

I look at the Professor and sigh. It's my fault he's like this, obviously in pain, his nose smothered in crimson, though luckily the color is slowly soaking into my handkerchief. If only I hadn't asked him to help me rehearse… Is it really a wonder that he prefers Mary Ann?

It's certainly not as though they make a federal case out of it; far from it. At times, in fact, I can almost seem to forget it.

But then my mind returns to the time right after the wreck of the _Minnow_, when we were all in the large hut together and he had his arm wrapped around her as the storm progressed, through the works: thunder, lightning, and rain, only tightening as it became darker, then lighter.

To me that is the most memorable part of the storm.

And how can my thoughts not drift to Gilligan's "eye of the idol"? We had a chance to get off the island. I was thrilled. But I didn't stop to think. After all, if I'd really loved him, wouldn't I have shown it? Wouldn't I have stayed with him, told him how much I cared?

But I didn't. Mary Ann did.

Then, above all, I start to think of our beauty pageant. He truly believed she was—and is, I suppose—the fairest one of all. I'm sure of it. There is no doubt in my mind that, even if the Skipper hadn't snapped me up first, he would still have chosen her. The dedication he put into her effort was amazing, I must admit.

And when her foot got stuck on the stage, I still vividly recall what he said as he ran to her side:

"Dear, what _is_ the matter?"

_Dear. _What had she done to deserve that?

There's no reason to be surprised, I guess. After all, doesn't every man prefer the girl next door, the innocent, pure hearted one that can be brought home to mother?

I think there was more truth in the script we rehearsed today than meets the eye. I've always wished it was _me, me, me_.

But no. It was always _her, her, her_.


	3. I'll Cry Instead

I keep my breath even, simply not allowing myself to hyperventilate. I cannot let anyone see how much the Professor's fall scared me.

He seems okay now—he's lying down, not bleeding as much as he was. I only wish I could reach my hand down to stroke his cheek, to tell him everything's alright. I'm here.

But I can't. My presence doesn't offer the comfort I'd like it to. I'm nothing more than a little sister to him. I can't expect to ever be anything more.

He's hers.

I guess I've always known it. I've just tried to block it out. But it's there, looming, something I can't get rid of.

I'm quite unable to count the times he's chosen her over me. Thousands of times he must have recruited her to work in the lab with him, or as his nurse when performing a medical procedure. I specifically remember once, the time when we were trying to fatten Gilligan up so he could rejoin the Navy once we were off the island, he _specifically_ asked for her. It took all I had to blink back my tears.

They're always together, it seems. Mrs. Howell obviously thought they were the perfect couple.

I've seen more than they think I have. It usually happens by accident, I'll admit. But I've witnessed them share more than one ardent kiss. It just twinged the first time, pinched the second time, but the third one hit me like a boulder and sent me into the jungle crying. Remembering that, I go cold.

It's nothing I shouldn't have expected. He would want the worldly girl, not the ignorant one, wouldn't he?

If I close my eyes, I can imagine, for just a moment, that the words of our rehearsal held some truth; I really am his, and he loves me in the tenderest of ways.

But the consolation only stays with me for that one fleeting instant.

And then reality comes crashing back down.


End file.
